


Old Nightmares

by DragonThistle



Series: Days You Think You'll Forget (but I kept a scrapbook full of polaroids) [5]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mild Blood, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:28:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26918863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonThistle/pseuds/DragonThistle
Summary: Matt has nightmares.Sometimes those nightmares feel a little too real.
Relationships: Friendship - Relationship, No Romantic Relationship(s), platonic - Relationship
Series: Days You Think You'll Forget (but I kept a scrapbook full of polaroids) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1959427
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	Old Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> “It stung like a violent wind  
> That our memories depend  
> On a faulty camera in our minds”   
> -Death Cab for Cuties, What Sarah Said

“…Edd?”

There’s a groggy, mostly asleep grunt from the shape in the bed.

“Edd?”

The lump under the blankets does not respond.

“Edd?”

Nothing.

“Edd, please, I—“

“Go back to bed, Matt…”

The lanky figure in the doorway sniffles, “B-but I had a nightmare…”

Edd huffs and buries himself deeper into his blankets, “So? You’re like, twenty-somethin’. Jus’ go back to sleep.”

Matt whines and shuffles anxiously on the carpet, “Edd, there were zombies and—and they ate me! They ripped my arm off and it—and you left me! You left me behind!” His voice is shivering on the edge of tears, cracking as he struggles to control the volume.

With a sigh of resignation, Edd rolls over and sits up, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes to get the sleep out of them. He squints at Matt, still hovering on the threshold, and sighs again before shifting over on his bed to make room. Matt hurries over and squirms underneath Edd’s blankets. He’s clutching a plush alpaca to his chest, burying his face in its pastel pink fur as he leans against Edd’s side and makes soft noises of distress. Edd hesitates and then awkwardly pats Matt’s knee, frowning into the dark room.

“So, uh, zombies, huh?” He asks.

“Yeah,” Matt sniffs again, rubs his eyes with the sleeve of his sleep shirt, “A l-lot of zombies. And I remembered—I _felt it_ when they ripped my arm off! I felt their teeth in me and the way my skin—and how much it hurt and how y-you—you and Tom—and there was so much blood—and it _hurt so bad!_ ” His voice breaks into a sob and he looks ashamed as he ducks his face into his plushie again. 

Edd’s mouth is dry and his throat clicks as his swallows. Almost without thinking, he puts his arm around Matt’s shoulder and tugs his friend closer. Matt obediently tucks his head under Edd’s chin, curling into his side and trying hard to muffle his sobs. It’s awkward but not unfamiliar. And somehow that makes it worse.

There were days—ones that seem so very far away now—where Matt would be crashing from a high. He would cry on those rare occasions, on those sparse times when reality crashed back home instead of easing into place with a gentle whisper. He would cry so hard you’d think his heart was breaking, gasping for air, turning to his friends for comfort, to be grounded and held until things settled. He would tuck himself into their laps or lean against their sides, the stink of weed and sweat clinging to his black hoodie, his hair a mess and his eyes red from more than just tears. Sometimes the tears were angry but mostly they were broken, hurt, wretched things that begged for mercy from the truths he was trying so hard to run away from. 

This moment, Matt crying into his side, sitting in the dark with an arm around his shoulders, is very much like those times.

“’s okay,” Edd says in a low voice, giving Matt a squeeze, “It was just a nightmare. Not a big deal, right? Just a bad nightmare. Maybe, uh, maybe you should stop eating so many sweets before bed, huh?”

“Why did it h-h-hurt so bad?” Matt chokes out and Edd wishes he would stop saying that.

“It...um. I…I don’t know, Matt, I’m sorry.” Something sour and heavy settles into Edd’s stomach and he twists in his bed, turning to wrap both arms around Matt and hug him tightly, “I’m really sorry, Matt, I’m so, so sorry. I wish…”

But the words get stuck in the back of his mouth, bitter and awful and full of thorns that tear him up inside.

So instead he just holds on. 

Sometimes that’s all any of them can do.

It feels like hours before Matt finally settles down and leans back, wiping at his eyes. Edd lets him go, thumps against the headboard, feeling more exhausted than ever. The whole thing is weighing heavily on his mind.

“S-sorry I woke you up,” Matt whispers, his voice hoarse, his offered smile wobbly and tilting awkwardly on his pale, freckled face.

Edd shrugs, “It’s whatever. I gotta pee anyway. You, uh, you good?”

A nod, “Yeah. I…I think so. Just…gonna get some water. Try and go back to sleep.”

There’s some shuffling, bare feet on soft carpet. They head in two different directions as they leave Edd’s bedroom.

“Hey, Edd?”

“Mm?” Edd half turns, hand on threshold to the bathroom. 

Matt’s a dark outline in the shadows, black against black, barely visible in the yellow streetlights spilling into the sitting room at the end of the hall. The darkness makes him look smaller,

“Are you okay?”

Edd smiles at him, “Yeah, Matt. I’m fine. Go back to bed.” He ducks into the bathroom and closes the door, doesn’t bother turning the light on and just lets the dull orange-red of the nightlight over the sink light his way. It makes the shadows deeper and the edges of things softer. 

He stands with his back to the door, listening as Matt’s footsteps fade, there’s a distant sound of the faucet, silence, and then footsteps passing by the bathroom. A door closes. A creak of bedsprings. And then quiet settles over the house again. It’s heavy, pressing against Edd’s ears and weighing on his shoulders, pulling him down, down, down until he wants to collapse in on himself, until he feels like he might break under the pressure of it. 

Matt doesn’t remember, but Edd does.

The raw iron stench tangled with the stink of rot. The adrenaline fear. The screaming. The begging. The ache in his legs as he’d run. The wheeze of stagnant air in his lungs. The sting of loss.

He doesn’t remember sinking to the floor but Edd’s got his face in his hands, his breathing hitched and strangled and his heart hammering in his chest. Matt doesn’t remember and if he does, then he just thinks they’re nightmares. And they’ve all dealt with this, dealt with Matt’s old memories floating to the surface in disconnected shapes, clinging to him in the form of dreams or a disjointed sense of de-ja-vu. It hurts as much as it’s annoying and none of them talk about it. 

Maybe they should.

They never will.

Not in this house.

Edd heaves himself up and leans over the sink, splashes some water in his face until he feels less like the world is trying to shake itself apart from under his feet. He’ll go back to bed, go back to sleep, and forget all about this. 

And in the morning it will all just feel like a bad dream.


End file.
